


Fate Is A Lie

by pomegrenadier



Series: Canon Is The Darkest Timeline [8]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Author Is Not A Fan, Author is in fact profoundly salty, Gen, KotFE spoilers, canon is the Darkest Timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 10,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5941597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>KotFE reaction ficlets. Because your choices totally matter! Neither in chronological order nor particularly complimentary of the source material.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. friends at the edge of the night

**o.O.o**

A message found in the databanks of the Imperial Fury-class interceptor _Maelstrom,_ to be opened in case of owner’s death.

> _Vette—_
> 
> _I’m not sure how or even if this message will become necessary, but everyone’s luck runs out someday. I hope it’s not for a long, long time._
> 
> _… That’s your doing, you know. Before I met you, death seemed a mercy. One I did not deserve, perhaps, but a mercy nonetheless. And then you came along. I would die for you in a heartbeat—though I sincerely hope it does not, and has not, come to that—but you … you made me want to live._
> 
> _You helped me when you didn’t have to, stayed when you could have fled, fought beside me and laughed at the dangers we faced. You saved me more times and in more ways than I could ever repay. You have been my best and truest friend._
> 
> _I love you. With all my heart, I love you, I love you, I love you._
> 
> _Ev_

 

**o.O.o**


	2. Poking Around

**o.O.o**

Morlie shouldn’t be poking around in the middle of a party, but since when has he cared about what he _should_ or _shouldn’t_ do? He finds a door near the back of the room, opens it, and sticks his head inside.

There’s someone already occupying the cramped space. Between molecular mops and deactivated maintenance droids, a guy’s leaning against a shelving unit with a plate of food from the bar in one hand. The other’s drifting towards one of the lightsabers at his sides, but he lets it drop and just raises an eyebrow at Morlie. “Hello,” he says.

“What are you doing in here?” Morlie blurts out.

“I’m hiding.”

"You’re the Outlander,” Morlie says stupidly.

“Shh, don’t go spreading it around.”

“I just—you—this is a closet.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Why are you hiding in a closet?”

“Lana and Koth are blocking the exits and won’t let me leave,” says the Outlander, in reasonable tones.

“But,” says Morlie, and then he shuts up, because he has no kriffing clue what he was even going to say after that.

The Outlander looks vaguely amused. “I’m not about to bite you, Corporal.”

“Right. Uh.”

**o.O.o**


	3. Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could probably have more sympathy for the Zakuulan contingent's devotion to Vitiate. I'm just a little teeny tiny bit hung up on Ziost.

**o.O.o**

“When Valkorion was in charge, he wasn’t fixated on waging war,” Koth says. So earnest. Always so earnest. “If we can get him back on the throne …”

“Valkorion is a world devourer,” Lana says flatly.

“He brought direction and stability to Zakuul.”

Evren folds his arms, frowning. “Koth, speaking as a citizen of one Empire to another—you’re deluding yourself. He _was_ fixated on waging war. He merely directed his efforts away from your precious glittering utopia, and used my people as pawns instead.”

“He was better than Arcann, at least!” Koth protests.

“Arcann hasn’t eaten any planets that I know of. Get some fucking perspective. And I don’t give a _damn_ about the great and wondrous Eternal Empire. Not while my people are living in terror or dying in agony … all because of Vitiate.”

“Valkorion,” Koth says, though it’s a halfhearted protest.

“Vitiate,” Evren repeats, practically spitting out the word. “His name is _Vitiate_. And he is. An omnicidal. Planet-eating. _Monster_.”

**o.O.o**


	4. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a gratuitously fluffy fluff—Theron shows up on Odessen, Ev has an emotion. \o/

**o.O.o**

Theron’s brain is itching. He’s been trained to resist mental invasion, but this doesn’t feel like something trying to bludgeon its way into his thoughts—a knock on the door, not a battering ram. He shakes his head hard, frowning. Then he catches Evren’s expression, painfully open and _lost_ , and—oh. “That you?” he asks.

Evren shuts down in front of him, the feeling vanishing, an easy smile sliding into place. “Sorry. Stupid idea. I’ll stop.”

“No, just—what was it?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly take a running leap into your arms,” Evren says, all breezy and casual. “Used to try to express the same sentiment through the Force, sometimes, but it’s not—”

“You were trying to give me a—a Force hug?” Theron says.

Evren laughs. Too smooth. It’d fool Theron if he didn’t know the guy. Lucky for them both, he _does_ know him. “In essence …”

“That is adorable.” Theron grins at him, lets his habitual shields loosen up. “Hit me with it, Wrath, I’m curious.”

Evren looks awkward for a moment, but then—

Whoa. Warm-safe- _home_ and gentle pressure like a blanket around his shoulders.

“Thank you. For being here,” Evren’s saying.

Theron smiles again, softer. “Yeah. You, too.”

**o.O.o**


	5. Ghoulish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wellp. DS path to recruit Lokin raises some alarming questions about Lokin’s willingness to risk another outbreak, and the Alliance’s willingness to recruit people who see casual biological warfare as blackmail tactic as a perfectly acceptable course of action. Woo.

**o.O.o**

The tunnels should repulse him. He should recoil from the oozing growths crawling over the stone, the endless dull chittering of rakghouls in the dark, the howling of the infected as they tear into each other and the THORN volunteers.  
  
He should loathe this place.  
  
A thrill of recognition spiders up his spine at the sound of the pack moving just out of sight. The eyeless pale faces peering out of the gloom are—curious, not hostile. He's something new. A new strain. Different, but . . . he can _smell_ them and they're familiar and safe while the humans around him smell like fever, like blood and hunger and _kill_ —  
  
Evren retches, reaches for the Force, shudders in relief as the dark side seethes through him. It hurts. It _hurts_ , and tears spring to his eyes, and he would drown himself in that pain if it meant burning out the virus eating him alive.  
  
"Shit," Theron says under his breath. Then, louder, "Wrath?"  
  
"I'm fine," he rasps. "But if this doesn’t work—”

“It _will_.”

Evren laughs weakly. “If—if you see Vette again, tell her I’m sorry I missed her.”

“Shut up, Wrath, you’re not gonna die,” Theron says, squeezing his hand.

He’s stared death in the face more times than he can remember. He’s believed, truly believed, that he was about to die on far too many occasions. This is different. This isn’t war, this isn’t something he can defeat with blades or words or even the Force.

There’s a monster growing in his cells and _he can’t fight it_.

“Hey. _Hey_. Stay with me, Evren.”

“Trying . . ."

**o.O.o**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your choices matter, but you can't refuse to recruit Lokin if you want that damn quest out of your log. Your choices matter, but you can't bring backup from your much-ballyhooed R&D specialist department to make sure Lokin doesn't try anything hinky while he's administering your cure. Your choices matter, but you still have to watch your character stand around like a useless NPC while Lokin sedates them and fucks off to play with his petri dishes somewhere else.
> 
> Right. Sure.
> 
> How it should have gone down:

**o.O.o**

“Hello, Doctor,” the Sith says. “Glad to see you alive and well.”

The back of Lokin’s neck prickles. Rakghouls have a keen sense of danger, and Intelligence agents cultivate their own, or they don’t make it very far in the ranks. Lokin has been both, and right now, every instinct, human and otherwise, is whispering _threat_. He knew it was a risk coercing Straik like this, but it’s been more than worth it thus far. Now he merely has to survive the next few minutes. “As am I,” he says with a smile. “Now, how can I help you?”

The Sith smiles back, a slow bright slash of teeth. “I wanted to thank you for the cure. You have no idea what the formula will mean to the billions at risk of infection.”

“I take it you intend to distribute the vaccine, then. A pity—I suppose any weaponization of the virus will have to take that into ac—aggkh!” Lokin breaks off as his throat constricts.

“I have no use for your virus,” the Sith purrs, one hand extended, fingers tensed into claws. “Or your pets. Or you, for that matter.”

“The Alliance—you need me …”

“You abused living creatures for no other purpose but your own pleasure, you infected me with one of the galaxy’s most horrific pathogens to blackmail me into helping you save your own miserable life, and you still have the temerity to suggest you have any place in my Alliance. What kind of fool do you take me for?”

Lokin sucks in as much air as he can. “Not a fool,” he rasps. “A pragmatist. Think, Wrath, _think_ of what you’re throwing away!”

The Sith shrugs. “Nothing of value.”

Lokin sees the red saber arcing towards him. Then he sees nothing at all.

**o.O.o**


	7. Off the Rails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where Evren is fed up with KotFE's railroady nonsense.

**o.O.o**

“Go on,” Lana says expectantly, as the silence drags for another painful minute.

Evren looks over the volunteers for the fledgeling Alliance. He could stay. He could say something hollow and inspiring, a pretty little speech. He could lie, as he has lied all his adult life—go through the motions of loyalty to another’s agenda, pretend that it is his own. He could be their leader, their savior, their _Outlander_.

He’s so tired.

Evren reaches out to Odessen, breathes in the smell of mist and soil and leaves and stone. Then he turns to Lana and says, “No. Motivate them yourself—I’m leaving. I have other priorities.”

“And what might those be?” she says.

He taps the side of his head. “Obliterating my unwelcome passenger, to begin with.” And finding his friends again—people he actually trusts, not this collection of so-called allies he had no part in recruiting and Zakuulans who still worship the world-killer in his mind.

“You can’t just abandon—”

“ _Watch me._ ”

“We need you!”

Evren smiles, humorless. “You need _them_ to need me.” He turns his back on her, on Senya, Koth and his crew, SCORPIO, all of them. And he returns to the shuttle.

Or rather, he tries, only to stagger sideways as T7-01 barrels into his leg with a jarring clank. The droid shrills a protest. “Friend_Sith = leaving? // Query = WHY? // Galaxy = in danger // Friend_Sith + Alliance = could help!”

“I know, little one,” Evren says softly. “But this is not the only way to win this fight. I don’t think it’s even the right way.”

“… T7 = follow Friend_Sith.”

He wants to cry _please, please don’t leave me, I can’t do this alone, I **can’t**_ — “Are you certain?” he says, trying not to sound desperate. He’s fairly confident he succeeds.

“T7 = protect + assist,” T7 beeps, insistent, and he trundles ahead of Evren up the shuttle’s boarding ramp.

**o.O.o**


	8. Underworld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drags hands down face*
> 
> So I played Chapter X and now my head hurts.

**o.O.o**

"I have a contact I need to meet with—"  
  
"Whatever happened to _I'm your backup if you need it_?"  
  
"You don't need me. You've got her," Theron says, nodding at Kaliyo.  
  
Evren stares at him. "Right, splendid, go ahead and leave me alone with the terrorist we've no reason to trust, directly under Arcann's nose, surrounded by enemies with no means of escape should something just _happen_ to go awry. Go meet with your mysterious contact, whom you've never mentioned before this very moment and shall probably never mention again, and don't bother to inform me of why exactly meeting with them is so bloody important. Yes. This is a wise and sensible plan. What could possibly go wrong."  
  
Theron laughs. "Oh, come on, Wrath, you've pulled more dangerous stunts than this."  
  
Evren throws his hands into the air. "Yes, and as a consequence I have been beaten, strangled, electrocuted, garroted, crushed, dismembered, poisoned, infected, frozen, exploded at, and impaled—just because I've survived so far does not mean I'm keen to push my luck any further!"  
  
"She's just one anarchist. You're a Dark Lord of the Sith, and you're already on your guard. You'll be fine."  
  
"Why, yes, I am Sith, I am _always_ on my guard, I exist in a state of perpetual paranoia—and I still wound up _stabbed through the chest with a lightsaber!_ "  
  
"That was Vitiate's fault, not yours."  
  
"Vitiate who is still in my head! Nothing has changed!"  
  
"Relax," Theron says, slapping him on the back with a genial expression. "You'll be fine. It's destiny, remember?" And before Evren can argue further, Theron vanishes into the gloom of the wrecked tram station.  
  
Evren stares after Theron, then wilts. "Fuck destiny," he mutters. He turns to face Kaliyo, who has been watching the exchange with a calculating expression.  
  
"Boyfriend trouble?" she says, smirking.  
  
"Don't you have civilians to slaughter?" he snaps.  
  
"Thought it'd be right up your alley, _Outlander_. Want to make it a date?"  
  
"No."  
  
Kaliyo shrugs. "Your loss. We doing this or what?"  
  
Evren raises an eyebrow at her.  
  
Kaliyo laughs, shaking her head, and moves off towards the elevator.

**o.O.o**


	9. Wreaking Havoc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gently beating my head against a wall*

**o.O.o**

". . . No," Evren says slowly, dragging the word out into multiple syllables, each separately infused with a different flavor of appalled bafflement. "I'm fairly certain that's not how wiretapping works. Isn't the entire point to ensure that the target doesn't know you're eavesdropping?"  
  
"Exactly. Which is why we need a distraction," says Jorgan.  
  
Force save them all. "No, we'd need _multiple_ distractions. Multiple viable targets. Otherwise, even if we succeed in tapping the outpost, the Knights would realize the larger force was merely a diversion for this specific objective—why else commit to such a risky and costly operation to so little benefit?"  
  
Jorgan frowns. "I'm pretty sure you're overthinking this . . ."  
  
"And _even then_ ," Evren continues doggedly, "any competent commander would insist on checking all our targets for anything amiss. Once they found the tapped comms, we'd be worse off than we are now—they could feed us false intel at their leisure. The plan would be fine if we wanted to destroy the outpost. But _wiretapping it_? No. I am not willing to gamble my people's lives on enemy incompetence like that. And in any case, we have neither the troops nor the resources nor the time for anything on a scale to make it feasible." He doesn't know that for sure, but he has no desire to risk what troops they do have, or Odessen's location, on such a shoddy plan.  
  
"What, so we should call it a day? Do nothing?" Jorgan demands.  
  
Evren stares at him as the last shred of hope that he might finally have encountered someone halfway sensible withers and dies. "The Republic's finest," he says under his breath. Then he says, "Find me a Knight uniform and I can walk into that outpost completely undetected on my own."  
  
"Whatever happened to _I'm not keen to push my luck_?" Theron asks. "Thought you were kind of . . . upset about that, when we recruited Kaliyo."  
  
"We're in Arcann's backyard on _your_ insistence, yet again," Evren says irritably. "We've fought enough skytrooper patrols to point the way straight to us. You're a spy and they're Special Forces and somehow not one of you has even the remotest concept of subtlety. This entire operation is a catastrophe waiting to happen and to top it all off my boots are absolutely encrusted with swamp muck— _of fucking course_ I'm upset! I am _even more upset_! But if we're doing this, we're doing it quietly and without avoidable casualties!"

**o.O.o**


	10. Unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Koth conversation, set after Chapter 10 of KotFE. I have really mixed feelings about his writing, but he's probably one of the most moral people on the Alliance command staff. Thing is, even if his and Evren's senses of right and wrong line up pretty well, they still have serious differences of opinion as to what the Alliance is *for*. So that's . . . awkward.

**o.O.o**

"Hey," Koth says, one chilly morning in the base mess. He sits down across from Evren. "I was thinking, and I just wanted to thank you. For being, well, you. You saved all those people when Vaylin tried to blow up the Spire, you stopped Firebrand from killing civilians . . . It means a lot, that even in the middle of a war you're not stooping to Arcann's level. So thanks."  
  
Evren drops his gaze, a bit embarrassed. "You are most welcome," he mumbles into his tea.  
  
"Gotta ask, though. Were you tempted?"  
  
"With Kaliyo? Not once. She can complain all she likes, but killing innocents will neither sway the people of Zakuul to our side nor intimidate Arcann."  
  
"So it was all about strategy for you?" Koth says, an edge creeping into his voice.  
  
Evren blinks, then laughs, shaking his head. "Apologies. I'm used to having to justify mercy. No—it was not entirely about strategy."  
  
Koth relaxes a little. "Your Empire is really messed up."  
  
"It is."  
  
". . . You still hate Zakuul, though."  
  
"I hate Arcann, and the fact that my Empire and all its horrors were built solely to feed Vitiate." To fuel his pursuit of this, his focus, his shining Eternal Empire and his much-vaunted _vision for Zakuul_. "But Zakuul's people? No." He does not say that the Zakuulans are just as much Vitiate's toys as the Imperials; he does not say that to Vitiate, _people_ don't matter at all.  
  
He does not say that he's almost jealous of them, for their gentler, kinder prison—almost, but not quite. His cage may not have been so pleasant but at least he's always known it was a cage.  
  
Koth seems to search his face, frowning in consideration. "And the Spire, when Lana and I got you out of carbonite?"  
  
"Tempting, but my life is worthless if it is bought with innocent blood." More innocent blood. And that's a line of reasoning he'd rather not pursue.  
  
"Lana was tearing her hair out over that stunt," Koth says fondly. "I love her, I really do, but sometimes she can push pragmatism over the line."  
  
"Mm." Evren's feelings about Lana's _pragmatism_ are somewhat less friendly, but that's between him and Lana.  
  
"Anyway," says Koth, "I'm glad you're . . . you. I mean, I'd hate to have to pick between our best shot at getting Arcann off the throne and doing what's right."  
  
 _I am not yours, I am not Zakuul's, I am not doing this for you—I am Imperial, I am **Sith**_ —but Evren smiles. "I'll try to avoid forcing the issue."

**o.O.o**


	11. Consultation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where Lana falls prey to KotFEWTF Syndrome, like Theron and Jorgan before her, Ev uses his noggin for more than an eyebrow holder, and Chapter 12 is pretty much entirely avoided. :-/

**o.O.o**

"No. We do not make a move on the GEMINI relay until we have an actual plan," Evren says. "Kaliyo, hold position. Jorgan, continue training the exiles."  
  
"Oh, come _on_ —"  
  
"Commander, we're not getting another shot—"  
  
"Were my orders unclear?" Evren says mildly. "Kaliyo. Stay. Jorgan. Exiles. That is all. You are both dismissed."  
  
"Our intel is growing stale as we speak. We don't have time for this," Lana says as the holo flickers out.  
  
"Our _intel_ is limited to 'here's the relay and the structure in which it's housed.' That isn't something Arcann can alter significantly without us knowing. More fluid details—specific security measures, guard rotations—would require further reconnaissance—"  
  
"Or you could consult Valkorion."  
  
Evren snorts. "Very funny."  
  
"He built the Spire," Lana says. "He may tell you how to invade it."  
  
"I don't trust him to tell me the time of day, much less how to invade the Spire."  
  
"He could be a valuable asset—"  
  
"Are you serious?" Evren says, aghast. "Lana, you were there, you saw Ziost, you _felt_ it—"  
  
"And now he, too, stands against Arcann. Isn't that the crux of his offers to you? That you share a common enemy?"  
  
"The enemy of my enemy is still a _world-killing monster_. I thought that was the one thing we could unequivocally agree upon. Ooh, speaking of my passenger—have you made any progress in finding a way to destroy Vitiate for good? Or has that fallen by the wayside along with the search for my crew, hmm?"  
  
"We've had other concerns lately," Lana says, tight-lipped. "And I would have thought you'd be more than happy to use any resource at your disposal. Turn Valkorion's knowledge against his own creations."  
  
"World-killer," Evren sings out.

**o.O.o**


	12. Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Voldypants's dialogue here is taken directly from Chapter 12 of KotFE. I have some _theories_ about Vuvuzela's endgame, so instead of railroading poor Evren into being an oblivious doormat, let's have him be a little genre savvy. Better yet, let's allow Sith to be, y'know, Sithy and manipulative and Up To Something.

**o.O.o**

Under any other circumstances, Evren would be demanding to be part of the strategy meetings regarding the upcoming assault on the Spire. At this point he doesn't trust any of his command staff not to do something astonishingly stupid for no apparent reason, despite their personal experiences and ostensible expertise.

But there's only so much strategizing he can do with "Ninety-Nine Barrels of Spice In The Hold" stuck in his head to drown out _certain other parties'_ unwanted contributions, so first he must deal with his passenger. Alone. Since none of his so-called specialists or advisors seems remotely interested in even trying.

To that end, Evren ensconces himself in a nice corner booth of the cantina, back to the wall, a bowl of well-seasoned bloodsoup before him.

"Vitiate," he says, for all that he'd rather call the ersatz Emperor something a bit more profane. "We need to talk."

The edges of his vision go dark, and the old man appears in the seat across from him, glowing soft blue. "You once claimed the mantle of my Wrath," he oozes. "Now look at you . . . begging for my scraps."

Evren rolls his eyes. "One: I never claimed anything. Your Hand chose me to be your Wrath for convenience's sake, you agreed for lack of any other options, and the Dark Council made it official. I had no say in the matter, as usual. Two: I'm not begging you for anything."

"Time and again, you reject my aid. Why would I trust you with secrets you have not earned?"

"Stars above us, I _just said_ I don't want your help."

Vitiate would never be so crass as to appear wrong-footed. He comes close, though. Evren counts it as a win, raises his spoon with a pointed smile, and allows himself a moment to savor the bloodsoup. It probably won't intimidate Vitiate, but it does set the tone.

He lets the silence stretch. Vitiate, bloviating windbag that he is, can't keep his mouth—his mind's mouth?—shut for more than a few seconds. "You have a destiny to fulfill. I am tired of being disappointed by your lack of progress."

"I thought you said that we were beyond fate, and that was why your weakling son feared us," Evren sniffs. "Furthermore, you do realize that your approval is the last thing I want, yes?"

Vitiate's lip curls. " _My son_ struck a killing blow against you. Had I not interfered, you would be dead."

"Oh, and I'm supposed to be grateful for the reprieve, am I?" Evren takes another sip of soup, smiling pleasantly. "That's funny. I seem to recall that I was _winning_ that fight until your untimely interference. It's almost as if you didn't want me to kill Arcann."

"Perhaps I should have let you die then."

"But you didn't."

Vitiate's expression does not change. "The galaxy is finally united under a single banner. It should have been yours. Despite your precious warship, a legion of allies, and my immense power at your disposal, you remain . . . incomplete. You have mastered the dark side of the Force. It is not enough. It never was. Until you embrace your full potential, you will only be a pawn of fate. Never its master."

"Oh?" Evren leans forward, folds his hands on the tabletop, assumes an expression of mocking concern. "For a being that claims to have mastered its own _potential_ , you seemed awfully susceptible to impalement yourself."

"My son blindsided me because I allowed it. But you were weak."

Evren hums and nods, condescending. "Of course, of course. All part of the plan." Then he scowls. "I follow my own path, Vitiate. Not yours."

"You truly believe that. How pathetic." Vitiate does not bother extricating himself from the booth—an operation that, in Evren's experience, is impossible to achieve with any dignity. He simply vanishes and reappears beside it, hands clasped behind his back, taking a few measured steps away and then rounding on Evren, because he is a vile cheating arse. "The future is not a river to carry us," he says. "It is the ocean in which we drown, if we are not prepared. You have two destinies, Outlander. In one, you defeat Arcann, claim the Eternal Throne, and remake the galaxy. In the other . . . you die alone, unmourned and forgotten."

"That's not what you said while I was in carbonite. Really, Vitiate, I thought we had something special."

"It is what will happen if you do not heed me. And now you will taste that defeat."

Lightning. Evren screams, convulsing as white-hot agony boils away all coherent thought. This isn't like the Sith lightning he knows—it's worse, a thousand times worse, a thousand years of cold implacable _hunger_ , empty and vicious and uncaring—

It stops. He sags in his seat, shoulder hitting the wall to his left with bruising force. He's shaking. His nervous system seems to reverberate with residual pain. His face is wet with tears and sweat, and he's fairly certain his nose is bleeding.

"Pitiful," Vitiate is saying. "Why did I ever believe that _you_ could change anything?"

"If I'm so useless to you, then kill me already." Evren pushes his back to the wall, lets it support his weight as he struggles nearly upright.

"I will not gift you that release. Not yet." Vitiate looks down his nose at Evren, composed and kingly. "This was a fraction of the pain my children can inflict. If you do not finish your training—become something greater—you will feel the full weight of their rage."

"Eh," Evren says with a shrug. "I think I'll survive. Especially if you stop _helping_ in the midst of combat. That'd be nice."

"Your goal is not to survive. It is to rule. There is nothing else." And this—this is just pathetic. He does love it when enemies reveal everything because they can't bring themselves to _shut up_. Vitiate turns his back on him in dismissal. "I cannot stay to protect you any longer. There are matters to which I must attend . . . but I will leave you with a final token of my favor."

"What—"

Power surges through him, an intoxicating, nauseating rush of shrieking noise and blinding terror and _too much, too much_ —and once again he's left wheezing and trembling in his seat, choking on the sudden absence of pain and the desperate, wounded-beast hope that if he holds very still it won't come back, it will be over, he'll be safe.

_Fulfill your destiny, and I promise to return,_ a too-familiar voice whispers at the back of his mind.

"I'll pass, thanks," Evren snarls.

_I have never been your enemy. Remember that, and be victorious_.

And then it's gone. The pressure so constant that Evren nearly forgot it existed—it's _gone_ , his head empty of voices and the taste of Ziost's ashes.

Evren laughs, an ugly crack of sound. "Got you," he rasps. He twists around, wincing at pain that's merely physical for once, and looks over the back of his seat. "Were you able to record his end of things?"

Apologetic beeping emanates from the cramped space between the wall and the booth. "Recording = negative / Sensors = detected 0 anomalies until Evil_Emperor's attack." There's a pause, and then: "Friend_Sith = need medical attention? / T7's medical kit = recently upgraded!"

He slings an arm over the edge and rests his hand atop the astromech's chassis. The worn metal is cool, even through his glove, and in the Force the electric _life_ beneath glows silvery and soft. "I'll be all right, little one."

That earns him a dubious _bwooooo_. "Mission = worth it?"

"More than worth it." Evren grins down at T7. "He gave me _everything_. He needs me in a position of power and influence before I can kill Arcann and Vaylin—say, at the head of an Alliance that transcends the divide between Zakuul, Empire, and Republic. I'm guessing he also wants me in command of the Eternal Fleet, though that might be an end goal rather than the means to reach it. But he also needs my consent to wield his power through me, to use me as . . . well, for lack of a better term, his Voice—and I've witheld it. So instead, he wants me to believe I need _him_ in order to be an effective new galactic despot."

"Evil_Emperor = controls Friend_Sith / Friend_Sith = controls galaxy," T7 concludes. The droid makes an irritated blatting noise. "Evil_Emperor = _rude_."

"That's putting it mildly." Evren resettles in his booth; T7 trundles around to the open side of the table as he finishes the soup. "But at least we know, now."

". . . Friend_Sith = certain of functionality? / Secondary energy discharge = unknown purpose = worrisome."

"It _felt_ worrisome." Evren sighs. "Could you run some diagnostics later, please? I'd rather not be taken by surprise if it's something horrible."

T7 chirps an affirmative.

**o.O.o**


	13. Out of the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where the Useless Hermit Brigade has to go door-to-door since Evren did _not_ wander around in the uncharted Odessen wilderness, alone, at night, for a potentially dangerous chat with the malevolent Force entity in his head.
> 
> But this isn't really a ficlet about the Outlander, despite what Satele and Marr might think. 0:)

**o.O.o**

He's awoken by a sense of _expectation_ , as if the inevitable is about to come to pass. Evren buries his face in his pillow and moans. The Force oscillates between overwhelming clarity and infuriating opacity here on Odessen, and right now, _something_ is pulling him towards the back entrance, just off the hangar. It is not, however, considerate enough to give any clue as to what that something is. Ugh.

Evren flops out of bed, pulls on socks, boots, coat, and gauntlets, and fastens his belt around his waist, lightsabers already clipped on. He shambles out of his chambers towards the hangar.

The blast doors open out into the wilderness behind the base. Usually there's nothing of interest back here except the odd wandering animal nosing at the support pylons out of curiosity. Today, however, there is a Jedi Master standing outside.

"We've been waiting for you for a long time. You were supposed to show up days ago," Satele Shan informs him, managing to pack five years' worth of peevishness into two sentences.

"We?"

A Force ghost shimmers into view beside her. It is tall. It is masked. It has spikes on its shoulders.

Evren blinks once, then seals the blast doors in their faces and comms Theron.

"Hnghgh?" Theron says sleepily. Oh. Right. It's just shy of 0400. Evren winces a bit—he's fairly certain that Theron only went to bed an hour or two ago, if he's kept to his regular schedule. Still, this is . . . personal.

"Your mother is at the back door with Darth Marr's Force ghost," he says. "Help me yell at them."

"Give me two minutes and I'll be right down," says Theron, all traces of grogginess gone from his voice.

"See you then. I'll keep them talking." He turns back to the blast doors and opens them again. Satele is still there, now frowning in disapproval. Marr is looming quite impressively for a dead man.

Evren beams at them. "If it isn't my two favorite beings in the whole wide galaxy! What have you been up to these past few years?"

"We have been communing with the Force, learning its secrets," Satele says solemnly.

"I was slowly dying of carbonite poisoning while the galaxy went to shit," Evren chirps. "I'm _so_ glad you managed to make yourselves useful in my absence."

**o.O.o**

Theron scrambles down to the back entrance in bare feet, pajama pants, and his red jacket. This isn't how he wanted to see her again, he wishes he'd had more warning, more time, but—if he doesn't go _right now_ there's no guarantee she won't just . . . vanish. Again. Like she always does.

From the voices—well, voice—floating across the hangar bay, too far to make out specifics, Evren is probably busy being obnoxious at Satele and Marr. Same dynamic as on Yavin IV, apparently. Back then it was kind of gratifying to see someone willing to give them shit. Still is. Because whatever they've been up to for the past few years, it sure as hell hasn't made a lick of difference against Zakuul, not that Theron can see.

And now they show up out of nowhere to . . . what?

Theron slows to a halt as he draws level with Evren. The Sith goes quiet at his approach; Evren glances at him and gives a short nod. Theron takes a breath. "Satele," he says.

She won't even look at him. "This matter does not concern you, Agent," she says, calm and stern and distant.

All the air whooshes out of him. He pulls it in again, through the sudden sharp knot in his throat. " _Agent_ ," he echoes. "That's it? That's—it's been years, I thought you were _dead_ —"

"I must speak with the Outlander alone."

Beside him, Evren levels a scarily neutral _look_ at Satele. "No. Whatever you have to say, your son will either hear it from you here and now, or from me as soon as you're finished."

"Time is of the essence, and you have wasted enough of it already," Satele says, and she doesn't even sound angry, just disappointed—and patient, and _righteous_ , and Theron wants to scream _look at me, look at me, I worried about you, I searched for you, why won't you_ look at me—

Evren tilts his head to the side. "What's the matter, Grandmaster? Can't bring yourself to face the family you _abandoned_ the way you abandoned the Republic—"

"That is enough," Marr cuts in. He, at least, sounds pissed. "Outlander, you are walking a dangerous path, straying far from what _must_ occur if you are to fulfill your destiny—"

"Oh, hush, Marr," Evren says sweetly, reaching up to press a finger to the mouth area of Marr's ghostly mask. Leaving it there, he returns his attention to Satele. "Now. Where were we?"

"If you will not accept our help, you will place the galaxy in grave danger."

"Bantha _shit_ ," Theron says. "You wouldn't risk that just to avoid talking to me—"

"Agent, this is not about you," Satele snaps.

. . . At least she's finally showing some kind of—of _anything_ , any feeling at all, towards him. Anything but indifference. There's a part of him that's shouting to shut up and leave, let Satele teach the Outlander whatever it is she's here for—but it's not the Outlander next to him, it's not the Alliance Commander, it's his _friend_ , and Evren called him down here to—

To be told that no, it's not about him. It's never about him. It never has been. It's not personal, it's just the way things are.

Theron almost wishes he'd stayed in bed.

"Then what is it about?" Evren is demanding, stepping back from Marr to bring both of the visitors into his field of view. "What could possibly be so important that you'd—"

"The power of the Force in balance," Satele says.

"Not interested."

"You are blinded by the darkness in which you have dwelt all your life," says Marr. "We can teach you the true nature of the Force—"

"Presumptuous, aren't you." Evren somehow manages to sneer down his nose at both of them, height differences notwithstanding. "Do you honestly believe you have anything worthwhile to teach _anyone_ , after years of inaction, of _cowardice_ —"

"When the Republic surrendered to Arcann, I gave myself over to the will of the Force. I left the Core Worlds and found this planet. We've been here for years. Waiting . . . for you," says Satele.

Theron keeps his voice more or less level. "You've been—here. On Odessen. You've been here this whole time and you never—you _knew_ —but it's all about the _Outlander_ , huh?" he says raggedly. "And hell with everyone else, all the people you could have helped, all the people you left behind—"

" _Agent_. Your childish outbursts are neither necessary nor useful," says Satele.

Theron wants to scream. But all he can do is stand there, unnecessary and useless—and he'll never be necessary and he'll never be useful, not enough, not for her, he'll never _be enough_ to earn even a second of undivided attention because there will always, always be something more important.

Maybe he's just being selfish. Maybe he shouldn't—

"Leave," Evren says, dangerously quiet. "Both of you. Now _._ "

Satele stiffens—she's actually worried. "You need us, Outlander. Without us, without what we have to teach you, you will never be able to defeat Arcann, or unite the galaxy under your rule."

"What a shame. You are not welcome here, Jedi. _Get out._ " He smacks a palm against the door controls and takes a step back, catching the edge of Theron's sleeve with his other hand and gently tugging him clear of the doors as they seal themselves.

Theron goes with him, numb. The last he sees of his mother, she's bowing her head in disappointment.

And she's not even disappointed in Theron himself.

**o.O.o**

The search parties find Satele and Marr's camp within hours, just a few klicks from the base. They're gone already. No sign of where they went. Just an abandoned ship, some dead campfires, and a baby sleen nosing around the compost heap nearby.

Theron sits on one of the crates scattered around the campsite, staring down at the locket he found on top of it, at the tiny figure it projects. That's him. Teenaged him, back in his embarrassing awkward elbows days, long hair and all. The locket's pretty worn, too, like it's been handled a lot.

Apparently she did miss him. But not enough to do anything about it. Not enough to so much as give a call to say she was alive, or check if _he_ was alive, or—if Evren hadn't commed him in the middle of the night, would she even have spoken to him? Would she have imparted her _wisdom_ to the Outlander and then run off without a word?

Theron snaps the locket shut and slams it down on the crate, shoving himself to his feet. So what if it breaks? It's an affectation. Sentimental junk. And she left it here on purpose, so it's either some banthashit Jedi thing about material possessions (and not giving a damn that he might find it, which is just like her) or it's a message for him specifically, and if it's the latter—what, she couldn't bring herself to just _talk to him_ —

"It's not all about you," he mutters, folding his arms against the predawn chill.

"That doesn't mean it pains you any less."

He jumps a little, turns—Evren, watching him over the blackened remains of the campfire. Theron looks away. "I should be over it by now. I know she's—I just thought—I don't know what I thought. That I'd get closure, or something, maybe."

"Satele Shan, granting _closure_ to anyone? Not really her style."

"Well, when you put it like that," Theron says, dry.

"She's never going to change, Theron."

". . . Yeah. I know." He sighs. "I've talked to Jace, a few times. My father. He said pretty much the same thing." Theron glances up at a faint crunch of leaves—Evren rounds the campfire to stand beside him, within arm's reach but not touching or crowding him. He cracks a smile at the Sith. "Maybe there's something to the whole letting go of attachments thing after all, huh?"

Evren hums in consideration. "I prefer to think of it as ignoring those unworthy of your time."

And that's—something, all right, it's definitely something. Satele Shan, unworthy of anything? She might not have raised him but she's been a constant presence in his life since he found out, made impossible to ignore by her very absence until that _lack_ of her became as familiar to him as breathing. And he keeps telling himself he's not surprised, not upset, not hurt that nothing he does has ever been enough to make her _look at him_ but—

"I need caf," Theron says abruptly.

Evren nods. "Do you want company?"

". . . I _want_ to sit around and mope, but I'm guessing you're not gonna let me, are you."

"I was going to make you spiced hot chocolate and see if that helped, but if you're dead set on moping, I'm sure we can work something out," says Evren.

Theron laughs a little, helpless. "Damn it, Wrath."

Evren flashes one of those annoying, dazzling smiles. "Love you, too, Theron."

It's delivered like a joke. Theron wants to believe it anyway. If there's anyone he can trust to say that and mean it—if there's anyone he can _trust_ —

"Thanks," he says quietly.

"Anytime."

**o.O.o**


	14. Let's Go Steal A Spire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this AU is definitely getting out of hand . . . O__o

**o.O.o**

"Er. _What_?"  
  
"Treasury ship. Heist. Lots and lots of money," Gault says patiently.  
  
"But . . . that's not how Zakuul's economy works!" Evren wails. Then he pauses. "Wait, how _does_ Zakuul's economy work? Some kind of universal basic income? Post-scarcity? It's not Republic-style capitalism . . ."  
  
"Is that even relevant right now?" says Gault.  
  
"You're asking me to participate in your little caper. I want to know if it's worth the effort. So yes, Gault, it's quite relevant." Evren rounds on Senya and Koth. "The majority of the military, industry, and general infrastructure are run by droids, yes?"  
  
"That's correct," Senya says slowly. "Any humans involved receive a stipend, same as the rest of the citizens, but most of it is droids."  
  
"What about the people of Breaktown?"  
  
"As I said before, that's where those who have fallen on hard times keep falling."  
  
Evren blinks. "How does one fall on hard times in the first place when one is not dependent upon wages or employment to secure one's quality of life?"  
  
"Does this guy always overthink everything?" Gault asks the room at large.  
  
"Only by comparison," Evren says tartly. "Admittedly I'm getting a bit off topic. So. How, pray tell, will stealing the treasury make any difference whatsoever to this war?"  
  
"Money," says Gault, with exaggerated patience. "Money for you, no money for Arcann."  
  
"Arcann doesn't need money. Droids don't get paid. The Knights are motivated by ideology, not money." Evren makes a face. "And how much _wealth_ is there to be taken in one heist?"  
  
"Wait," Senya says suddenly. "You're talking about money, but that's not . . . It's not a treasury. It's a _stockpile_. The contents of that vault are a rare metal harvested in particulate form from the gas giant's lower atmostphere and processed at the facility into solid ingots for ease of transportation and use. The _Gilded Star_ then brings the latest haul to Zakuul, where it's distributed across the planet for use in the sun reactors."  
  
"Wow, that's an embarrassing translation error," Koth laughs. "Who would've thought that 'power source' would get translated as 'wealth'?"  
  
"It's not so surprising," says Senya with a shrug. "Gold, wealth, suns, and power are all culturally intertwined. In Zakuulan poetic idiom the terms are often interchangeable."  
  
Gault looks forlorn, and though his lower lip does not quite tremble, it comes close. "And here I was getting all excited about the heist of the millennium."  
  
Senya shakes her head. "One shipment of sun ingots is hardly enough to black out the city again. And I'm sorry, but they aren't worth much on the open market. Sun reactor technology is a closely-guarded secret. Without schematics for the reactors themselves, it's essentially useless."  
  
Evren folds his arms, leaning back against the wall, frowning in consideration. He's not a tremendous fan of sun reactors in as a concept—they're alarmingly vulnerable to Force users throwing tantrums. Or chunks of torn-up gantries, as the case may be. Or particularly vigorous inclement weather. But . . . schematics.  
  
Oh. _Oh_.  
  
"Where does the _Gilded Star_ deliver the ingots, exactly?" he asks.  
  
"The Spire," says Senya. "A loading dock at the base."  
  
"How tight is security surrounding delivery itself?"  
  
Gault makes a noise that is almost but not quite a whimper. "I gave you _ideas_. Shit. I've created a monster."  
  
But Senya looks intrigued. "Not very. The ingots are unloaded and then taken directly to the reactor chambers or to a distribution area nearby, if they're bound for other sun reactors. What do you have in mind?"  
  
Evren starts grinning. "We have schematics for the Spire, courtesy of the Overwatch data. We have a way in—and transportation straight to the complex. We have operatives on Zakuul as we speak, perfectly placed for a very loud distraction indeed."  
  
"So _now_ can we go after the GEMINI relay?" Koth says wryly.  
  
"Yes, we can go after the GEMINI relay. Senya, please inform Theron and Lana that they're needed in the war room. Gault, I need to know every detail of your plan to board the _Gilded Star_ —"  
  
"I feel like this is no longer _my plan_ ," Gault complains.  
  
"He does that," Koth says, patting Gault on the shoulder. "You get used to it."  
  
Evren raises an eyebrow at the Devaronian. "Well?"  
  
"I expect—"  
  
"Compensation, yes, I know how this works, you'll be amply compensated for your assistance and you'll also feel warm and fuzzy and virtuous inside."  
  
Gault sniffs. "I'm allergic to virtue and Hylo tells me you're broke."  
  
"Hylo thinks our cause is worth fighting for. I know you're not one for causes, but you do care for her. If you want a second chance, now is the opportunity to start earning it." Evren pauses, then adds, "Also, it'll humiliate Arcann."  
  
". . . So there's this guy I know, Dretcher, best identity forger in the business . . ."

**o.O.o**


	15. Don't Say Your Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from OneRepublic's "All We Are," because I am a sap.
> 
> Assume they're not on the gas giant planet itself, because setting up a meet with your disintegrator bomb suppliers, who may or may not be very grumpy people indeed, at the same location as your high-stakes super-secret heist, is a really terrible idea.
> 
> And now for the reunion that should have happened, not the lackluster _whatever_ that we got instead. Ask me about the romanced vs. non-romanced Vette lines sometime, go on, ask me, I have so much aro rage about the fact that she only sounds happy to see the Warrior if they romanced her ahahahaha goddammit :'D

**o.O.o**

"Kaboom!"  
  
A Rutian Twi'lek springs out of the missile through a hatch in the top. Laughter rings through the dumbfounded silence, bright and mocking and triumphant, _her_ laughter, her life blazing across his senses like a meteor—  
  
"Vette?" he whispers.  
  
The laughter fades. She stares down at him, eyes widening. "Evren . . ."  
  
Gault is saying something. They ignore him. The galaxy might as well have stopped spinning around them—or ceased to exist entirely. Evren stumbles forward one step, two, drawn as if by gravity—and then Vette is clambering down from the missile and launching herself at him with a noise somewhere between a shout of delight and an overwhelmed sob.  
  
They catch each other. They catch each other and he's _home_.  
  
"You're really here," Vette says. "You're—I thought—Ev, what _happened_? It's been, what, five years—I thought you were _dead_ —"  
  
"Vette, I'm so sorry—Arcann, carbonite, I—I missed you so much—"  
  
She hugs him tighter for a moment, then hisses in a breath and lets go. "Shit. Wasn't even thinking—"  
  
Evren is going to start weeping any second. It's Vette. It's _Vette_ , and she remembers, and she's _here_. "It's all right," he rasps. "Please."  
  
She looks up at him, searching his face for a moment. Then she nods once, decisively. "C'mere, big guy," she says, pulling him close.  
  
She's so warm. Layers of armor and cloth between them, and they don't matter at all—Vette is warm and good and _friend friend friend_ , reverberating between the two of them in beautiful, incandescent discord.  
  
"Don't ever disappear on me again, okay?" Vette mumbles into his shoulder.  
  
He closes his eyes. Breathes, for what feels like the first time in years. "Never."  
  
"Gods of the homeworld, I love you. I—I didn't say it, during that last comm call—it felt too much like saying goodbye and I didn't . . ."  
  
Evren laughs, and he is crying openly now, and he has never been so damn _happy_. "Hello," he says. " _I love you_."  
  
"This is all tooth-rottingly adorable," Gault says loudly, "but we're kind of in the middle of something, here."  
  
"Shut up, Gault," they say, in unison.

**o.O.o**


	16. Professional Disagreements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I finally played Chapter 14. The RepCom soundtrack is still awesome. My opinion of Mandalorians is still _complicated._ And my tolerance for Lana's Token Evil Teammate excesses has reached its limit. Yay?
> 
> I'll probably write something more plot-relevant later, but this is a conversation that's been a long time coming and honestly should've ended in weapons drawn but I am a Lazy Butt who hates writing action scenes so HAVE SOME SHOUTY DIALOGUE.

**o.O.o**

"We need to talk."  
  
Lana glances up from her datapad, raising an eyebrow. "How ominous," she says mildly.  
  
Evren sits down in the chair across from her, the desk between them strewn with holocrons, paperwork, and stacks of reports. "You wanted me to withhold information from our allies that would save their lives. Why?"  
  
"I already explained my reasoning," says Lana. "The Mandalorians are dangerous, Commander. Useful, but unreliable. When this war is over, or perhaps even sooner, they will turn on this Alliance. I merely wanted to ensure that their ability to damage us was mitigated." She pauses, and then adds, with a faint but distinct note of irritation, "I should have known you wouldn't understand."  
  
Evren snorts. "Oh, I understand. We've been through this a few times before, haven't we."  
  
"If you're referring to the incident on Rishi, I will remind you that _I was right_. And Theron forgave me long ago."  
  
"He may have forgiven you. I, however, have not."  
  
Lana stares at him, then sets down the datapad with a sharp _clack_. "You're _impossible_ ," she says. "Every time I make or even simply advocate the prudent choice, you act as if I've betrayed you personally—"  
  
"Perhaps," says Evren, "but your prudence is more often pure stupidity."  
  
" _Excuse me?_ " Her Force signature flashes across his mind, despite her shields. Shock, first, at the sudden hostility; then a slower, deeper flare of anger. Her yellow eyes narrow, and she grips the edges of the desk until her gloves creak.  
  
Evren holds her gaze. Old hurts, newer frustrations, months of buried disgust shading into rage—he's held his tongue for far too long. " _We do not betray our allies_ ," he hisses. "We do not take the path of brutal expedience when it's not even expedient! You've set yourself up as an authority on strategy and alliance-building but you are _painfully short-sighted_ —"  
  
"Don't pretend this is about strategy," Lana snarls. "Yet again you prioritize your precious _conscience_ , your pitiful bleeding heart, over actual, tangible results!"  
  
Once he would have been terrified at the prospect of a Sith Lord calling him out on his _bleeding heart_ , but now—no. He answers to no master anymore.  
  
Evren takes a breath. "What results? How in the nine hells would letting those people die have benefited us more than building goodwill with a powerful faction whose aid we desperately need?"  
  
"And when the war is over? What then? Do you honestly believe the Mandalorians will be content to lay down their weapons—which _you_ allowed them to plunder—and respect the Alliance's authority?"  
  
"Oh, please. Do _you_ honestly believe they wouldn't have found another way to rearm themselves? At least this way they're inclined to work with us rather than against us."  
  
Lana shoves herself to her feet. She takes a few sharp, furious steps away, then rounds on him once more. "Time and again, you have placed this cause in danger by refusing to listen to me. Time and again, you have rejected my advice in favor of overly optimistic half-measures and staggering displays of weakness. Do you have any idea how much work went into building the Alliance? Do—"  
  
Evren stands, too, and steps back from her desk, shaking his head in mocking regret. "How terrible that the Alliance has grown so powerful and effective without drowning itself in innocent blood, collateral damage, and unnecessary losses. _What a shame_."  
  
"You gamble with the fate of the galaxy, Straik," Lana says coldly. "One day, you _will_ lose."  
  
Evren barks out a laugh. " _You_ named me Commander, Lana. _You_ failed to ask if I even wanted the job. I never sought to lead, but here we are. I should really thank you—oh, wait, but you didn't want me to truly lead, did you? You wanted me to be your puppet. Your _weapon_."  
  
Lana exhales, slow and measured, and carefully assumes an expression of subtle hurt. "You think yourself quite clever, don't you," she says. "You think you have everything figured out. Did it ever occur to you that I might have known you were repulsed by the idea of command, and sought to relieve you of the burden while giving the Alliance the leader it thought it wanted?"  
  
"That would have been so very thoughtful of you. If you'd been honest about it from the start—and if I believed you."  
  
"You don't trust me. After everything we've been through—"  
  
"Yes. _Exactly_. Good night, Lana."  
  
He leaves without waiting for a response.

**o.O.o**


	17. Celebrants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to work out how Chapter 14 fits into my accidental reworking of KotFE into something that might make sense, if you squint a little. Still having complicated feelings about Mandalorians. Here they are.

**o.O.o**

He couldn't exactly opt out of the "celebration" without coming across as rude. Not that there's anything _to_ celebrate, in Evren's opinion; it seems more like an excuse to get staggeringly drunk. Dangerously inebriated Mandalorians being irresponsible idiots with their very much live weapons, indulging in pointless fights among their own that risk serious injury on the eve of an actual battle, and caterwauling about glory and blood and honor and death and the hunt—what could possibly be better than this?  
  
Evren initially tries to stay near Torian, who seems to be a relatively quiet celebrant. Tries, and fails, as a gaggle of Clan Beroya survivors (and no, he's not viciously pleased that so many made it out alive despite _everyone else's_ best efforts to the contrary) swoop in and absorb Torian into their midst, congratulating him on succeeding even though he was saddled with an untested outsider.  
  
Evren also tries and fails not to be annoyed. Untested? Do they think the lightsabers are _ceremonial_?  
  
He drifts aimlessly between groups of raucous Mandalorians, lurking on the fringes of other people's conversations without contributing. Until, that is, Khomo Fett notices what he's doing. "Come on," Fett says, slinging an arm around Evren's shoulders and grinning at him, breath sour. "Don't tell me you're too high and mighty for the rest of us." He drags Evren back into the knot of Mandalorians he'd been attempting to leave. "Who wants to hear some Sith war stories, eh?" Fett calls out.  
  
A round of affirmatives and cheers. Fett jostles Evren again. "Well, go on, tell us all about the battle!"  
  
Evren holds very still. He wishes he'd kept his armor on after returning to the base camp. Then he wouldn't have to feel every single one of Fett's fingers digging into his shoulder. "There's not much to tell."  
  
"Droids aren't to your liking, huh? Couldn't agree more! There's no glory in fighting machines. But a real battle, with real blood on the ground . . . Don't tell me you don't miss it. You've fought Jedi, right? Course you have. Best damn feeling in the galaxy is taking out some smug little _aruetii_ brat, yeah?"  
  
Evren goes cold. "Jedi are an integral part of the Alliance," he says mechanically.  
  
Fett groans, and the surrounding Mandalorians jeer in disappointment. "We all know that's crap—you're _dar'jetii_! We're all warriors here, you don't have to pretend to like 'em. So go on—what's your best kill?"  
  
"Let go of me."  
  
"All right, fine, you're shy. I'll start—so I get a contract on some Jedi that were making trouble for an Exchange slaving operation. Didn't know when to stop sticking their noses into the client's business. Finally catch up to them on Balmorra, this tiny village at the arse end of nowhere. There's two of them, big stupid Mirialan kid and a mean old Togruta, and they're so busy blathering at each other that they don't even notice me. Mirialan keeps tugging on his braid like he's jacking off, it's hilarious."  
  
"Let go of me, Fett," Evren says, voice very quiet.  
  
Fett ignores him, uses his free hand to demonstrate the gesture, to the vast amusement of the crowd. "So I shoot the Togruta first, bang, perfect headshot, and she drops like a skarkla's balls. Mirialan loses his damn mind, screaming, crying—"  
  
Evren _pushes_ Fett off-balance with the Force, twists out of his weakened grip. He peels his lips back from his teeth as the cheers and laughter die.  
  
"You are disgusting," he says.  
  
Fett staggers, recovers. For a long moment, he merely stares at Evren. And then he throws a sloppy roundhouse punch.  
  
Evren blocks with his right forearm, stepping into Fett's space to halt the punch before it can even progress halfway along its trajectory. At the same time, he brings the heel of his left hand up between their bodies to strike Fett's chin, hard. Then, while Fett is still stunned, Evren wrenches the man's entire torso downwards, bringing his own left knee up to smash into Fett's face.  
  
Scoop left elbow under chin, sweep out Fett's knee with left leg, _shove_ weight forward—and Fett falls on his backside with a yelp.  
  
Evren retreats a few paces, well out of flailing range. And then there's just . . . dead silence.  
  
Oh. Oh hells. Every Mandalorian in the room is staring at him. Every drunk, well-armed, brawl-happy Mandalorian. The Force tenses to snapping point. Hostility roils behind the wall of armored bodies that surrounds him. And he can't, he can't defuse this, someone is going to attack and then people are going to die and—  
  
Someone starts _applauding_ , laughing uproariously. "Not bad, Sith," Shae Vizla says, shouldering her way through the crowd, still clapping. "Not bad at all."  
  
Evren's thought processes stutter to a halt. "Erm."  
  
"Hey, Khomo, get up already, you're embarrassing me." She nudges Fett with her boot, then huffs impatiently and drags him to his feet by the forearm.  
  
And within seconds Fett has been reabsorbed into the throng, object of too many slaps on the back and affectionately patronizing guffaws to number, and Vizla is herding Evren away and pressing a foaming mug of tihaar into his hands and loudly commenting on his fighting style.  
  
Evren clutches the mug and tries not to hyperventilate. The room is suddenly very small for the number of people crammed into it, and it's too hot, too loud, a suffocating roar of white noise, and oh would you look at that he's having a _moment_ , lovely, amazing, fucking _perfect_ —  
  
"Drink up, kid," Vizla says, lowering her voice. "You look like you need it."  
  
"I don't drink," Evren hears himself say, mouth on autopilot.  
  
"Then sit down before you fall down." She guides him to a chair that's been dragged off to the side of the room, near the door—open, mercifully, allowing a whisper of Darvannis's endless hissing winds to sneak through.  
  
He breathes. "Thank you," he says hoarsely.  
  
"The thing about Mandalorians," says Vizla, leaning against the wall beside him, folding her arms, "is that we're not Sith. Sure, we're killers. But sometimes all a crowd of Mandos really wants is a good brawl among friends. We fight for the fun of it. Even when we lose, we win, because the fight itself is all that matters."  
  
Evren rubs his face and tries to pull himself together. "Somehow I doubt that Khomo Fett considers me a friend," he says.  
  
"No, but you just showed the rest of them that you're a worthy ally. They'll remember that you handed him his ass, and that it was funny."  
  
". . . I'll take your word for it," he says faintly.  
  
Vizla laughs under her breath. "You stick to wrangling Pubs and Imps, I'll stick to wrangling Mandos."  
  
"That would be for the best, yes."  
  
Another round of cheers and shouting from the party at large. People start shooting their blasters at the ceiling.  
  
Vizla heaves a sigh. "Duty calls," she says.  
  
"Doesn't it always."

**o.O.o**


	18. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't even _started_ KotET. I have, however, been thoroughly spoiled for most of the important plot developments (such as they are), and . . . um. Yeah. No. NOPE. Nope nopity nope nope! Literally none of my characters would set themselves up as the new Eternal Ass that sits upon the Eternal Throne.
> 
> "Your choices matter." Uh-HUH. Sure, Bioware. So here's Evren, making a goddamn choice.

**o.O.o**

Evren sits down. The holo-image of the Fleet, all its millions of ships, blossoms to life in cold blue light before him. Presumably, this is the point at which he's meant to hesitate. To consider all the good he could do in the galaxy with the power of the Eternal Fleet at his command.

An Eternal Alliance to shape the galaxy however he desires.

"Fuck _that_ ," Evren mutters, punching in a destination.

One by one, the warships signal their receipt of the new coordinates. One by one, they come about and angle towards Zakuul's star. And one by one, they dive into incandescent oblivion. He watches the Fleet burn, vaporized in seething solar fire.

Alarms are screaming. Critical damage. Signal lost. It's the sweetest sound in the galaxy. And as the last warships die in flames he rises to his feet and turns around. The Eternal Throne stands proud and golden, still bright with the majesty of an empire.

He holds out a hand. The dark side coils under his skin, gleeful and hungry.

Evren rips the Throne apart, shreds it piece by piece, metal screaming, wires sparking. He has never loved destruction so much as this, unmaking Vitiate's legacy once and for all— _wrath_ has never felt so good. Not an Emperor's, not an Empire's, but _his_.

In the end he walks out of the throne room with a jaunty spring in his step, leaving behind a broken chair and an empty sky.

Really, though. Despotism is _so_ obnoxious.

**o.O.o**


	19. LvD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alignment in SWTOR has always been arbitrary. Mechanically there is no difference between playing a Light V character and a Dark V character of the same Force-wielding class. Marauders run on Rage/Fury regardless of alignment; Sentinels run on Focus/Zen. And now that we can just . . . toggle an alignment to ~fight for~ on server-wide meta-events . . . yeah. Whatever.
> 
> And then there's the LvD companion. Sigh.

**o.O.o**

"Jedi Master Dazh Ranos. Heard good things about you, Commander. Savior of the galaxy. Champion of the light side. Hope you live up to the hype," she says with a wry little smile.  
  
Evren blinks. "Champion of . . . sorry, what?"  
  
Ranos shrugs, still smiling, as if amused by his bafflement. "No need for modesty. And there's no need to hide from me, either. Don't worry—I won't tell."  
  
". . . You are mistaken, Master Jedi."  
  
"No? I believe the dark side comes from putting yourself above others. From what I've heard, you don't."  
  
"Believe whatever you like," Evren says stiffly. "Have you graced us with your presence in order to explain my own use of the Force to me, or is there something else you want?"

**o.O.o**


End file.
